Difficulty
by FriendlyCurse
Summary: Change is a constant and Jason Warren tries his best not to be involved in most of it. That is how you survive in Night Vale. Once in a while trying just isn't enough.
1. Chapter 1

Jason Warren stared into the eyes of the stranger in the mirror. The face that was not his looked back with an appropriate amount of concern and disapproval but it wasn't right. It was never right. Slowly he raised the towel and secured the hooks that would keep the lying glass hidden from sight. At least until the next municipally planned earthquake.

He slowly circled the house, righting fallen lamps and dusting the chair beneath the hole in the ceiling. It wasn't a large hole, really. Barely large enough to fit an egg through. Probably the site of one of the Sheriff's Secret Police cameras. He hadn't checked. Not knowing was often better. Whatever the cause, a lot of dust seemed to sift down during earthquakes. He thought about moving the chair but if it _was_ a camera the police might think he was trying to hide something by changing his routine.

As usual, he simply swept the light coat of dirt away and brought out the vacuum. He worked fast, knowing the Sheriff's Secret Police disliked the loud, unpleasant noise that made it so hard to hear anything he might say.

He found the earthquakes and spying to be frustrating and inconvenient and didn't really understand the necessity but it was something he wouldn't say out loud. Not again, anyway. One afternoon of reeducation was enough. How Steve Carlsberg could go through that multiple times was beyond him. Why couldn't he just be quiet and live in peace? After that hellish experience he had distanced himself from his childhood friend, the man who couldn't let sleeping dogs lie.

Life had been mostly better since that. He wasn't followed as openly, he didn't wake up in strange places as often and there were less dead animals scattered around his house in the mornings. Steve used to tell him that other cities didn't have things like this happen but that just sounded… absurd. If this wasn't normal why would it be allowed? He had to agree with the guy on the radio - Steve Carlsberg was just a troublemaker.

Jason sighed and dropped into his now clean chair and stared at the wall. He missed Leonard Burton but the intern who took over was growing on him. He thought about trying to look for the old Voice of Night Vale after his disappearance but when Steve started trying to arrange a search party he figured this was another of those sleeping dogs. The Sheriff's Secret Police had eyes everywhere - if someone was _meant_ to be found, they would be.

He had an hour left before he had to go to work and this time of day there was nothing good on the radio. TV was a waste of time with all the fanciful and absurd shows. He considered talking to whoever was on the other side of the hole again but there were never any responses so that, too, seemed pointless. A bit like talking to the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lived in his home. Everyone knew about her but the only reason he had to believe she actually existed was the occasional reversing of light switches and rearranging of cabinet contents in the kitchen.

As easy as it was to blame her for his car keys going missing every few days he knew that was most likely just him being absentminded. He still blamed her since it prevented him from getting reprimanded if he was late to work. He sighed and decided to just drive around until it was time to go to work. It would be a lot easier if he had stop sign immunity but he still had to get another three stamps on his Alert Citizen card.

It wasn't that he rarely saw something worth reporting, it's just he didn't feel _right_ about reporting some of the more innocent things he noticed people doing. Why was it even illegal to tap dance on Wednesdays? He didn't really see any reason to report it when he heard the unmistakable sound from the house next door in the early hours of the morning. He just pretended not to hear and took another shot of vodka. Then he pretended he didn't drink too much and took another shot. At least when he was drunk things didn't seem so worrisome.

He was reaching for his keys when a loud klaxon sounded from nearby. His head jerked around to the radio that had turned itself on. His heart nearly stopped every time it did that…

"Listeners," The new Voice of Night Vale said as the alarms fell silent. "The Sheriff's Secret Police has requested that I alert you to potential difficulties today. There is no detail given on the kind of difficulty there may be but the Officer who handed me the note has set up a small tent in the break room here at the station. I'm not sure how long he intends to remain and it was a perfectly nice day when I came in to the studio but perhaps it would be wise to remain home if that is an option."

Jason sighed in irritation. He'd used up all his vacation days already, sick days he needed to save since the kindly old woman across the street invited him to dinner occasionally and mild food poisoning was inevitable. He still hadn't figured out a way to let her know she was a terrible cook and that pet of hers he never quite got a good look at… it had a growl that sent shivers down his spine. Better to stay on her good side. He peeked between the blinds and looked out over the quiet street.

It was quiet, still, normal. The skies were clear, the sun was bright and he didn't see any helicopters so the warning probably applied to something that would be happening later in the afternoon. Going straight to work was probably a good idea, then. Maybe he could get a few hours of overtime…

He grabbed the keys and hurried out the door, pausing only to lock it. As he pulled out onto the road he glared at the motionless cars and trucks in the driveways he passed. Here and there curtains fluttered where the people inside peeked out to see who was outside after the warning. It was a warning, not an _order_, he thought irritably. If it were an order he'd have had an excuse to miss work and he'd probably get another Alert Citizen stamp for reporting anyone out driving, himself.

He did his best not to speed but the warnings did set him on edge. He hated the vague ones the most. Last time it had been a swarm of experimental gophers who created a few sinkholes under one of the neighborhoods. Of course the children involved were reprimanded and most biology books banned from the schools. They all underwent reeducation as to the proper use of bloodstone circles as well. Only one of them died that time.

He pulled into a sparsely populated parking lot at the Ralph's and sighed. Slow days were the worst... It looked like they would be understaffed again but with no customers it didn't matter. He reached for the handle of the door and paused. Was the air... yellow?

He shook his head and decided to just make a run for it. Once he was indoors it should be safe. Better a quick sprint than being stuck in the car until further notice. Slamming the door behind him, Jason began running, cursing the rules stating that employees had to park in the back right corner of the lot. He was halfway there when his lungs began burning and it got harder to draw the thick yellow air in.

Difficulty breathing... He realized and the thought somehow struck him as funny, he gasped weakly in silent laughter as the world went dark around him.


	2. Chapter 2

"_You aren't you just because you think you are."_ A low whisper in his ear jerked him back from the void. He opened his eyes and saw coworkers crowded around, none close enough to have been whispering.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Nolen asked nervously, eyes darting around in the 'don't sue the company' way he saw any time someone slipped and fell or found moldy cheese on the shelf.

"I think so." He said as he sat up and assessed his state. He felt… a little odd but nothing he could put his finger on. It didn't hurt to breathe but his head hurt a bit when he ran a hand through his hair.

"You hit your head pretty hard when you fell." Melissa supplied helpfully with that incessant smile of hers. There were rumors she moved to town from Desert Bluffs when she was a child and has _always_ smiled like that. It was unnerving.

"Feels like it… I think I'll be alright, though." He assured the gathered crowd as he got to his feet. They began to disperse though there still seemed to be nothing to do. The clock indicated he'd been unconscious for almost two hours and he doubted he'd been clocked in by Nolan the Cheapskate. So much for squeezing in an extra hour.

Muttering to himself he went to clock in and pretend to be busy, pulling boxes flush with the edge of the shelves, turning candy so the labels all faced up, wiping at imaginary dust as often as real dust. It was a neverending job in a desert town, no matter how good the seal on the door, dust seemed to pass through walls when no one was looking. Aside from almost dying in the parking lot it was just another boring day.

So boring it was boring into his skull… he could almost feel the drill… booooooooooring...

It wasn't funny, it was a very stupid thought. Even so it brought a chuckle out of him. It just got funnier the more he thought about it and he couldn't think of anything else and soon he was roaring with laughter and everything seemed to be getting kind of… yellow. It was hard to breathe and his coworkers were rushing over to find out what was going on but he couldn't stop laughing. Soon the lack of oxygen began to affect him and as things started going dark again he saw people around him falling to the floor clutching their throats. Somehow that was even funnier and he struggled to gasp for breath as he sank to the floor.

* * *

He woke in a brightly lit concrete room with four other people. They were lying in a neat row on the floor by order of height. He was in the middle. There was a heavy metal door with no window or handle and a sign on the wall that said only 'YOU ARE GOING TO DIE' in very unfriendly block letters. He had seen less encouraging things during his life but not many.

"Remain where you are. Do not speak." An unfamiliar but unmistakable vocoder enhanced voice ordered from a speaker.

Jason nodded and sat still. What more could he do? The Sheriff of Night Vale was a fair but unforgiving person. Arguing would do no good, it would only fulfil the prophesy of the paper hastily taped to the wall that much faster.

_I don't want to die._ He thought aggressively at the paper. _Not that I have a lot to live for… single, working a dead end job in a city that forbids the use and appreciation of yo-yo's. _

The reasoning behind that had always eluded him. What was wrong with yo-yo's? Harmless toys, really. He'd considered that maybe too many people got violent when the string got knotted but then it occurred to him that Steve Carlsberg was probably having the same thoughts and started thinking about whether his lawn needed mowing yet or not.

Of course it hadn't, most of the grass was either dead or stealthily being replaced by weeds that stayed low to the ground as if that would prevent anyone from noticing them. He was still dwelling on spiteful and unwelcome plantlife when one of the others, Samantha, woke and looked around.

"What happened?"

"Do not speak. Remain where you are." The unseen sheriff repeated.

Jason shrugged. Samantha sat up, saw the note and glared at him. She mouthed 'this is your fault' and crossed her arms over her chest, staring straight ahead. He scowled indignantly at her. His fault? All he did was go to work! There hadn't really been a choice and what did he _do_, anyway?

Over the next half hour the process was repeated as each person woke, glared at Jason with varying degrees of intensity and waited. They all knew not to defy the order of the Sheriff. At best you would disappear to an unknown fate, at worst there was the Dark Box where you would be erased from history.

He didn't like thinking about the Dark Box… he couldn't remember his father. His mother was quite certain he had one but she couldn't remember him either. Steve Carlsberg once told him that meant his father had done something bad enough to get sent to the Dark Box and now no one could remember him. It did make sense but he'd rather think it was something like this… a strange accident that removed him from their lives, not a willful disobedience to known laws.

"Who was the first to be exposed?" The unseen Sheriff asked. All fingers pointed at him. "Stand and approach the door. Do not speak."

He stood and quickly made his way past glaring people, Even Melissa was scowling at him. As he neared it the door swung open just enough to allow him through. On the other side were four people in hazmat suits and before he could ask what was going on, he felt the jab of a needle in his neck and once again fell into darkness.

* * *

Breathing hurt. As he fought his way back to some semblance of wakefulness all the aches and pains catalogued themselves neatly in his mind. It felt like he got into a bar brawl, went down early and got stomped on while everyone else kept going.

He groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around. he was in a large room, he could tell that much from the way his groan had echoed. There was very little light, only a vaguely rectangular shape formed by light seeping in around a door. It smelled dusty, the air was stale… that was not an encouraging observation. He considered not making further observations but it didn't seem there was much else to do.

He stood and made his way carefully toward the light. There were footprints in the thick layer of dirt around the door, he could make out a few sets and a drag mark that was probably made by him. The door was locked. Of course. Well, it wasn't locked so much as barred from the other side. Jason glared at the dark gap in the light that marked the location of the bar and sighed. He hated the Night Vale Justice System. This wasn't a first degree warning, that usually involved waking up outside in the desert somewhere. It could be a second degree warning where there was a way out if he could figure out what to do.

What worried him most was that it could be punishment. He had no idea what he was being punished for aside from disregarding a warning over the radio but that shouldn't have been a punishable offense. He paced, frustrated and bored. If it was punishment he had simply disappeared as far as anyone knew and he would probably die here. Locked away and forgotten. How many of these places did the City Council have?

Sighing heavily he began walking along the edge of the room, one hand on the wall. It was round. Very large and very round. _Cylindrical_. His helpful inner voice said. _Half cylindrical is all you can honestly say._ On the far side from the door to the outside he hit the frame of another door. That glowing rectangle seemed so far away…

After further examination by touch he found a keypad. There was no way to tell whether it was numbered or even operational but it wasn't like he had anything else to do so he started pressing. There was a simple square of nine buttons so it seemed logical that hitting the right combination would automatically release the locked door. Most keypads like this he had seen used four digit codes so he started systematically hitting four key combinations. It wasn't like there was anything else to do.


	3. Chapter 3

_CLUNK._

It had been a very long time since he'd heard such a welcoming sound. As it was he had lost track of how long he'd been pressing buttons. He was sure at least two days had passed - his stomach was cramping and his mouth was as dry as the sand wastes in summer. Jason forced himself to his feet and pushed the heavy door until it gave way with a rusty screech and inched open.

He looked around the cheerfully lit hallway with the fresh white paint on the concrete walls. He took a moment to absorb the painful and surreal brightness before heading for the first door he saw, a friendly yellow against the harsh whiteness. He hesitantly turned the knob and peeked in to what looked like an absurdly… happy version of the breakroom at work.

He stood dumbfounded for just a moment as he stared at the formica countertop holding a pristine microwave and coffee pot, half full of steaming bliss, a bowl of suspiciously juicy looking fruit, a box of doughnuts he could smell from where he stood… This wasn't right.

Still, his stomach reminded him - two days. He edged into the room and looked around but saw no other people. He heard only the muffled sound of someone talking. He opened cupboard doors until he located a stack of clean cups brightly printed with a sun and the words Desert Bluffs.

_What am I doing here?_ He frowned, pouring coffee as he devoured a doughnut. If they hadn't wanted this food eaten, this coffee drunk, they wouldn't have left it out without a sign, would they? The coffee wasn't all that great and the doughnuts were a little stale but it was all fantastic compared to nothing.

He took a bite of a jelly doughnut and froze, looking down at it. "Who uses orange marmalade as a filling?"

"Isn't it fantastic?" An enthusiastic voice asked.

Jason jumped, almost spilled his coffee and looked up. He thought Melissa had that creepy smile perfected but this guy with his carefully styled hair, too-white teeth and his wrinkle-free suit was a step above her.

"I… just wasn't expecting it." Jason said, trying to hide how unnerved he was.

"Oh, it's really the best. You'll get used to it. Ready to get to work?"

"Work?" Jason repeated, dumbfounded.

"Of course! You're already a couple hours late and they _did_ warn us that might happen at first. I'm sure you'll do better in the future, though, won't you? You want to be a productive member of society, right?" The man pressed, his smile widened but did not increase in friendliness. If anything it made Jason more uncomfortable.

"I guess… What is it I'm supposed to be doing?" He asked, trying to remember whether anything had been said, whether he had even _agreed_ to anything.

"I do hope this memory problem of yours clears up soon!" The man laughed cheerfully, walking over to wrap an arm tightly around Jason's shoulders and guide him toward another door on the far side of the room. "You're the new intern with the newspaper. It's not hard work, really, just errands and fact checking occasionally. It's a really fantastic and _important_ job."

"I don't know my way around Desert Bluffs very well." He admitted uncomfortably.

"That's alright. We have a map and you'll do your very best to learn your way around quickly." He turned to look into Jason's eyes with that wide smile. "Won't you."

"Of-of course." He said nervously, resisting the sudden and desperate urge to shove the man away and run. There was something about his eyes… it was like looking into madness itself.

"Great! I'll introduce you to the staff. You'll be running errands for the writers so they don't have to leave their desks and lose valuable work time."

"Just the writers? What about the editors?" He asked. It made more sense to worry about the editors, didn't it?

"We don't talk about the Editors." He said as his cheerful smile momentarily became a nervous smile. "So, you know where the break room is…"

Jason tried to stay focused on what the man, Mr. Locke, was saying but there were so many unanswered questions it was hard to keep up. He was briefly introduced to the four writers, shown his new desk complete with typewriter, phone and the promised map of the city considerately laminated so it would not be ruined. It could also not be folded and was too large to carry with him conveniently. He would have to memorize his route ahead of time. New orders would be spit out from a handy slot in the wall over the 'In' box on his desk.

There were already three papers waiting.

The first was from Mr. Fleming, a portly middle aged man who had given up on combovers and shaved his head. He had given Jason that same wide smile he was starting to think was simply what passed for normal in Desert Bluffs. He wanted Jason to double check the scores from the last game the football team played. Sounded easy enough.

The second was from Ms. Ward, a lady who looked downright homicidal with that smile. That horrifying woman was in charge of classified ads and obituaries. She needed him to get the funeral dates for three people who had passed away the day before.

The third note was from Mr. Barker who handled the business section of the paper and wanted him to get a statement from the owner of the ice cream shop downtown. It didn't say what he should be asking about, just told him to get a statement.

Since Mr. Powell from the local news department didn't seem to need anything, he shrugged and sat at the map, plotting out his route and writing directions for himself so he wouldn't get lost on the way. The best order seemed to be to check the funeral dates, stop by the school then get the statement on the way back.

The newspaper headquarters was fairly central so it shouldn't take too long to do everything on foot. He assumed that was what was expected since no one said anything about a company car and his keys weren't in his pocket. He asked a couple of smiling people for directions to get out of the building, tried not to notice how condescending those smiles looked, and started off.

Desert Bluffs was… strange. Everything perfectly clean, everyone smiling and busily moving along. No children playing, no stray animals. Spotless sidewalks, streak-free windows, polished street lamps. It seemed almost unnatural. If not for the oppressive heat from the familiar sun he'd think he was on another planet.

Everyone nodded or waved and smiled, always smiled, when they saw him. No one stopped to talk even if they seemed to know each other. Every person walked or drove efficiently and with purpose. He felt awkward as he ambled uncertainly, looking around and referring often to his instructions.

Finally he located the funeral home with its stately columns and bright billboard outside stating 'The Smiling God Welcomes The Productive Employee'. He shook his head and went to find someone who worked there. The conversation was short and uncomfortable as the funeral director looked over the names, dug out their files, located their Productive Hour Count and referred to a chart in order to give him the time and day of the week for each. One with a particularly low PHC would be buried at 3am when no one was likely to attend. That little fact was related with a conspiratorial chuckle.

Notes taken, Jason quickly excused himself so he could 'get back to being productive'. What kind of insane city _was_ this? He'd always known Desert Bluffs was backwards but this was just beyond rational thought. Not once had he seen a bloodstone circle, either. Where did these people do their chanting? Increasingly unnerved, Jason hurried to the high school where windows all showed room after room of students reading and writing as teachers sat staring at them. No one seemed to be talking. There was no sound of children playing, no shots from the school's gun range. What kind of school did they have that kids weren't enjoying breaks and receiving basic sniper training?

On the field he found the coach watching and nodding as the team practiced. There was no talk or laughter, just the constant sound of impact as they learned tolerance to pain. Another uncomfortable conversation followed as the coach questioned his right to privileged information but finally relented and told him what was to be printed. Whether it was the actual score or just what he wanted the paper to report, Jason wasn't sure. He didn't care enough to find out, he quickly got away from that disturbing place.

He wasn't sure how relieved to be when he got to the designated ice cream shop, Smiling Scoops. The bright, colorful building seemed almost normal for an ice cream shop. The smiling sun that was the logo seemed a fairly accurate representative in this town. He opened the door to the cheerful grins of two people behind the counter, colorful paper hats sitting jauntily atop their heads.

"Hello, I'm with the paper and came to get a statement from the owner." Jason said with as much confidence as he could muster. The girl who looked as if she should probably be trapped in that school with the rest of the teenagers slowly looked at the older man, her smile never faltering. _His_ smile widened.

"Rattlesnakes prefer blueberries to strawberries." He said with almost majestic gusto.

"They what?" Jason stared at him, not at all sure how to respond. He was reasonably sure snakes didn't eat fruit at all.

"That is my statement. Would you like an ice cream cone?" He asked cheerfully.

"No… thanks… I better get back." He said with a weak, nervous smile. It was increasingly obvious that everyone in this city was downright insane.

"Have a fantastic and busy day!" The girl said happily before the door closed behind him.

* * *

The rest of the walk back to the newspaper office was quiet. Unnervingly quiet. Passing cars were the only sound at all. No birds, no insects… it made him queasy. He was happy to get back indoors though not much comforted knowing that everyone here was just as strange as the people elsewhere.

He got back to his desk, typed up the responses he had been given and went to deliver them to the appropriate people. Each one read over the text, nodded and got back to work without questioning him further. He returned to his desk where more papers were awaiting him but it was nearly evening and he heard some of the others heading out.

Before the man could leave he caught Mr. Locke. "Hey… uh… I'm not really sure where I'm supposed to go after closing. I mean, is there an apartment or something I'm supposed to be staying at?"

"Don't be absurd." Mr. Locke said with a laugh. "You haven't earned an apartment yet! The bottom drawer of your desk pulls out to a bed but the more work you get done the faster you will earn a place of your own."

"...You're joking, right?" Jason frowned.

"I'm not sure what things are like where you're from, Mr. Warren," He said with a tight smile. "But here we are all expected to pull our weight before we get benefits like houses and refrigerators. The break room is generously stocked for those in your position but it would not be wise to count on the kindness of the Editors forever. Your predecessor tried that and see where it got him?"

Jason nodded, not sure exactly where it got him but entirely content to remain ignorant.


	4. Chapter 4

The phone was dead.

It was just as well, Jason thought as he lay in the surprisingly comfortable if narrow drawer bed. He had wanted to call _anyone_ back in Night Vale to find out what was going on but not a single telephone he tried had a dial tone. As weird as this was, all he could figure was he had been banished. Punishment for ignoring a warning was apparently being forced to start a new life in Desert Bluffs. The Night Vale Justice System was truly cruel.

However comfortable the strange bed was, sleep just wasn't obliging and he got up to look at the assignments he was meant to be working on. Ms. Ward wanted him to type up the handwritten classified submissions and organize them alphabetically by what was being offered or sought. He located the submissions by following a trail of clues left in a series of notes around the building and spent most of the night typing. He was surprised how many people were selling dried pasta sculptures.

By the time he finished that dawn was nearing and he looked to the rest of his errands. More fact checking, at noon he had to pick up a macaroni sculpture Mr. Barker purchased, then there was a press conference being held by the mayor he had to attend with Mr. Powell and take notes. It didn't say what the press conference was about but he imagined it would be interesting if it was anything like Night Vale press conferences.

He'd only seen one in the past, mostly because he had been walking to work when his car broke down. The mayor had been standing on the steps of City Hall shouting about the terrible influence of black helicopters on Night Vale's youth while throwing handfuls of grape jelly at the reporters in the front row. He would try to convince Mr. Powell to stay near the back just in case.

With a yawn he made his way to the break room for coffee and something to eat. Though he'd seen a couple other interns working in their respective areas, they hadn't encouraged conversation and neither seemed to take breaks. He enjoyed his coffee and some of the fresh doughnuts. He would have to get a nap later. There should be time after the press conference. The lack of rest was starting to catch up to him but it wouldn't be long before the town came to life and he'd be able to take care of all the jobs involving running around for the writers.

_Maybe just a quick nap… _He thought as he looked at the clock. Business hours were seven in the morning to eight at night according to the sign on the door and it was only a few minutes past five. The coffee wasn't bad but it wasn't enough to combat his exhaustion, either. He returned to his desk and stretched out in the bed. This time sleep was quick in coming.

* * *

"That is not a productive use of time, Mr. Warren."

His heavy eyelids reluctantly obeyed the command to open and he took in the condescending smile of Ms. Ward. He yawned and sat up, bit back some less than complimentary thoughts about productive writers and tried to formulate a more acceptable response. "A tired brain is not productive, it makes mistakes."

She gave him a grudging nod. "Did you get _anything_ done to warrant sleeping late?"

"Yes," he said more sharply than he intended as he grabbed the stack of papers he'd spent most of the night deciphering and alphabetizing for her. "I just hadn't gotten this to your desk yet."

"Try to have your work delivered promptly next time." She suggested as she took them and headed back to her workspace.

_I loathe that woman._ He grumbled silently to himself. Once more he trudged to the break room and downed two cups of coffee as quick as he could before pouring a third to sip at his desk while he woke up and planned out his errands.

Aside from the obsession with being productive and temporarily living at the office, this job wasn't bad. At least he didn't have to deal with a constant stream of strange and irritable customers. Of course he _did_ have to deal with the strange and cheerful people around town... It was almost as bad.

He was on his way out of the building when he caught sight of his reflection and immediately turned for the bathroom. He looked awful. There were no razors so there wasn't much he could do about stubble but he washed his hair in the sink and dried it as quick as he could, glad it was too short for tangles.

He reminded himself to ask when they got paid so he could buy some new clothes. By the end of the day he was quite certain it would be hard not to look like a hobo. He wasn't sure what they expected, though. It was hard not to be bitter about losing the nice clothes back home but there was no telling what would happen if he went back for them. He might end up in the Dark Box, permanently erased from history.

Once he was as cleaned up as he could get he headed out to see if he could find the man he was supposed to interview for Mr. Barker. The problem was this man sold hot dogs from a cart he pushed around town. Of course people were helpful and pointed him in the direction they saw the man going when he passed by but it still took the better part of the morning to catch up.

By then he was outside the theater offering food to those leaving the previous show. He stared at the show listing in uncertainty for a moment. They were all live shows but mostly seemed to be training sessions for a company called StrexCorp, group worship of a Smiling God, and lectures on efficiency.

He wasn't sure how any of that was entertainment. Night Vale's theater was far superior with mime shows and blind poetry readings. Sometimes the performers even finished before the Sheriff's Secret Police took them away. He shook off the fond memories of the past and went to chat with the intensely optimistic man with the hot dog cart. He was barely able to focus on the questions as he wrote the bizarre answers. The man loved hot dogs and wanted to share his love with the whole town. He was excited because StrexCorp had decided to fund his cart and buy twenty more. They would be circulating the town twenty four hours a day starting next week.

He escaped the unnervingly wide smile as quickly as possible and hurried to pick up the sculpture for Mr. Barker. The address listed was for an office building. In the lobby was a woman holding a platter with a roasted turkey and vegetables. He approached the woman with her impatient grin and saw that everything on the platter was made with painted dry pasta.

"I'm so _glad_ you showed up! This was getting heavy and I really must get back to work." She said with a faint overtone of frustration.

"Yeah, looks like it might. It's... really detailed..." He set the money that had been sent for the purpose on the edge of the platter and took the large, surprisingly weighty sculpture from her. She plucked the money up and took off toward the elevator at a quick walk.

Shaking his head, he headed back to the newspaper offices. It wasn't a short enough walk and he had to set the ugly thing down a few times to rest his arms. He was increasingly sure she used a bag full of sand as a base to glue all the pasta to. As creative as the piece was, he had no idea why anyone would pay real money for it.

Once that had been dropped off with the bizarrely appreciative writer he rushed to find Mr. Powell. He grabbed a notepad and pen on the way by his desk and next thing he knew he'd been rushed into the back of a company car as the older man drove as quickly as was safe to the city hall. They were almost late thanks to that stupid turkey.

The large, grandly decorated entry hall of the building was full of people and even though Mr. Powell pushed, wiggled and dragged Jason into the crowd they didn't even make it halfway to the front before the mayor on the balcony overlooking the people below called them to order.

Jason scribbled as fast as he could legibly as he ranted about the glory of Desert Bluffs and the Smiling God who gives warmth to everyone. Then he moved on to how great StrexCorp was and how some day, under their leadership, Desert Bluffs would destroy Night Vale.

He paused and bit his lip. They seriously believed that? They thought this horrible town would _ever_ be strong enough to take over Night Vale?

Before he could get hold of himself he began to laugh. The faces that turned to him were, for the first time, void of smiles. This only made him laugh harder as the air around him began turning distinctly yellow. People tried to back away but there were too many and before long there was chaos, people collapsing and laughing all around him amid a yellow fog.

Jason fell to his knees as his vision began darkening, the lack of oxygen... so hard to get a full breath around the hysterical laughter... Then there was new movement.

The Sheriff's Secret Police, now wearing gas masks, flooded in and spread out, and pulled fleeing people back into the yellow air. A gas mask dropped over Jason's face and he felt another needle jab.

Slowly he regained control and forced himself to take deep breaths. The darkness receded and he struggled to his feet.

"Good job." The vocoder obscured voice of the Sheriff said from behind him. "I think you infected most important people in town."

"What?" He looked around in shock at the people sprawled unconscious around them.

"Wonder how long it will take for them to find the cure." The Sheriff mused. Jason swore he heard a hint of amusement in that voice... "Let's get back to civilization. You have a new job to get used to."

"New job?" He asked weakly. He couldn't argue, not with the Sheriff. He took the deep hooded robe one of the Secret Police handed him. "I'm..."

"One of the hooded figures." The Sheriff nodded, guiding him to one of the blue helicopters waiting outside.


End file.
